


Sensational

by TakeTheShot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Avengers (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Canon-Typical Injury, Clint is wilfully blind, First Time, From Clint's perspective, Fun and feels in flashbacks, Get Together, Hurt Clint Barton, M/M, Oblivious Clint, SHIELD Husbands, The senses, Unsuprisingly, falling in love slowly, implied injury, non-graphic injury and treatment descriptions, ok rating is now for smut in the final chapter as well, or at least being wilfully blind about it, phlint - Freeform, rating mainly for swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-13 01:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeTheShot/pseuds/TakeTheShot
Summary: 'For Clint, falling in love with Phil Coulson had been easy. Automatic even. It was realising that he’d done it that had been the hard part.'Clint Barton's senses fell for Phil Coulson before his brain knew what was happening. Hearing, taste, smell and sight, they've all been head over heels for a while now. But not touch. Because that would require actually understanding your feelings and chancing saying something about them and Clint just...hasn't. And now it really seems very much like he might have run out of time.How Clint fell for Phil told in flashbacks and set against the backdrop of an op gone wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this turned out a lot longer than I expected! I didn't actually want to chapter it, but I'm wrestling with the format (remind me never to do flashbacks again) and its taking me ages so I've split it as best I can. I still think it reads best all at once so I'll be posting the chapters close together. But feel free to comment on each as you go ;)
> 
> Chapters may contain triggers for some aside from those tagged, so I've put spoilers in the notes.
> 
> My first fic of 2019 so wishing you all a very happy new year!
> 
> Enjoy and, as always, it would be great to hear what you think x

>>===>>

Wrong.

It’s wrong. 

That’s the first coherent thought Clint manages to have, after the screaming stops.

Wrong.

Phil’s touching him, Phil’s actually touching him, Phil’s hands are on his bare skin, his heart’s pounding and his breath’s coming hard and it’s wrong.

He’s waited, wanted and waited for Phil to touch him and this is not how it’s supposed to happen.

It hurts.

Phil’s pressing him, pushing him, and it hurts like burning and cold all at once. Why, why is he pressing so hard?

“Barton? Barton, look at me,” 

Phil’s voice slides into his ear, same as always but not quite. There’s a note to it, a strain he’s not used to hearing, something tight. Did…did someone get to Phil? He should sit up…. 

“no Barton, don’t, don’t move. Look, look at me, you’re going to be fine. Do you hear me? Just fine. No!” 

He’s talking to someone else now, a dark shape running past, a shadow in Clint’s peripheral vision, but it’s hard to see from down here on the floor. 

“No, don’t waste your time, they’re both down, he took them down already, get me the field kit, I need dressings and morphine and for god’s sake someone get me a medevac team right the fuck now!”

Who is he talking to? That big guy with the knife? Or did that one go down already? Clint can’t quite remember. It doesn’t seem that important right now anyway if he’s honest. 

“Barton, come on, stay awake, no sleeping on the job, come on now. Jesus, there’s so much…Barton!”

Phil’s here. That’ll do. 

That’ll always do. 

He wonders briefly if Phil knows that.

But of course he doesn’t because Clint’s never said a thing about it. 

Maybe he should have.

There’s a whole lot of fuss happening around him now though, something sharp in his thigh that stings like an afterthought, and Phil’s still got his hands low on Clint’s belly, doing that harsh pressing like he’s trying to get right through to the tarmac. 

He looks busy. He’s frowning.

“Where is my damn medevac? Get me an ETA. I need an ETA _quickly_.”

Maybe now wouldn’t be the best time.

Clint can’t stop himself thinking that it’s stupid really, this. Isn’t it? 

Falling in love with Phil Coulson had been easy. Automatic even. It was realising that he’d done it that had been the hard part. Almost as if his brain was some kind of computer that had had the ‘head over heels for Phil Coulson’ program downloaded, ready since the moment they met, always been waiting to run it, but just been opening it really, really slowly. Like dial-up slowly, bringing his senses steadily online one at a time at the speed of dead until one day he’d realised that ‘smitten’ had already been fully and irrevocably installed while he wasn’t paying enough attention.

Stupid.

He should have paid extra for the high-sped fibre-optic broadband and added the relationship packages. Checked for Phil in the app store. Been brave enough to ask for upgrades.

Ha.

He’s losing it. 

The techie metaphor is getting away from him in the fuss and the absurdity of it makes Clint want to laugh. He tries, but _shit_ that hurts again, really hurts even through the cosy pink blanket of whatever was in that sharp and worse, it feels wet somehow. Worryingly flood-y. Now that’s Phil’s hand on his shoulder, leaving smears on his cold skin. Scarlet streaks. They’re pretty almost.

“Barton, keep still. You’re fine. Just keep listening to me, do you hear? Are you hearing me?”

Clint wants to give Phil a smile for that. He would, if he didn’t need his mouth for gritting his teeth. Because of course he’s hearing Phil. He always hears Phil. That’s how it started.

>>===>>

_Clint’s perch was high, but not too high. Under cover, but not too undercover. Well chosen. Perfect really, he couldn’t have asked for much better his first time out. Best of all it gave him a clear view of the warehouse’s rear parking lot and the way the mark would likely run when the ground team flushed her out of what she thought was her safe house, they way she’d head for an exit. Except she wasn’t going to find an exit. She was going to find Clint, not that she’d have time to know it. It would be one shot. Quick and clean._

_Simple._

_A milk-run._

_Except…_

_Clint tensed, shuddered, drew in a long breath. And then another, and another._

_Except, what if it wasn’t?_

_This was his first run out for S.H.I.E.L.D. and while he’d taken people out before (he wasn’t proud of it, but he had) this was the first time that something other than his own hide or his own payout had been at stake. This was important. Like real-life important because this mark was a legitimate bad lady who needed to be taken down. And if she got out back the ground team wouldn’t be able to follow her, given that their intelligence had discovered an unhealthy number of traps. So it was down to Clint. Just Clint, just him, the eyes up high. Just him to take the shot, stop the flow of psychotropic drugs that the mark’s followers were addicted to and cut off the budding terrorism ring at the source before people got hurt, just him and his bow and the mark and actual real-life consequences, actual people’s lives on the line, not him scratching his own living and nobody to care if he went down, not a computer program this time, not a fight or die simulation, this was real and there was just him, him, just him…_

_The next breath was quicker, less steady, and the next quicker again. Maybe this had been a stupid idea from the beginning. Why had he said yes to this? Joining S.H.I.E.L.D. a fresh start, being part of something bigger, better…what had he been thinking? It wasn’t him. He’d been alright on his own, always alright, nobody to rely on and nobody relying on him. It had worked. Yeah, maybe it had been a bit lonely, but it had worked. But now…Clint stretched out his draw hand in front of him, flexed his fingers. Were they shaking? He wasn’t sure. Squinted down the sightline of his nocked arrow and swore as the view blurred._

_“Fuck.”_

_Clint would have sworn he’d no more than breathed the word but the comms buzzed to life in his ear anyway._

_“Agent Barton? Is there a problem?”_

_The voice in his ear was cool, smooth like Egyptian cotton, finely controlled as Swiss clockwork and it belonged to his new handler, Agent Coulson. Coulson, the Senior Agent who’d brought him into S.H.I.E.L.D._

_More accurately, the Senior Agent who’d dragged him kicking and screaming out of the hole he’d been rotting in after escaping Carson’s crime circus then wrestled him into S.H.I.E.L.D before pushing him into the Academy and completely disappearing for the entire six months of Clint’s basic training. Coulson had vanished so completely that Clint had almost started to believe he’d imagined him, would have except for the amount of insane stories and rumours flying around about his badassery and not-so-secret ninja skills. But that was all he had to go on for months,, stories. Then out of the blue one morning a memo assigning them together and less than a week later here they were, Clint’s first live op. Clint grimaced. He didn’t want to let S.H.I.E.L.D. down or let his team down but he mostly, desperately, didn’t want to let Coulson down._

_Not ‘the’ Coulson._

_Not after everything the guy had done for him._

_He glanced at his watch and there was still time for him to swap out with the reserve sniper waiting back at the command truck. Maybe that would be for the best. He was bound to fuck this S.H.I.E.L.D. thing up sometime and then he’d be out on his ear anyway, so might as well get it over with. He steeled himself to ask, to front out with the inevitable anger and dressing down, “Sir…”_

_“Wait.” Coulson cut him off crisply._

_There was a click and a buzz as the comms switched to what Clint recognised as a private channel, just him and Coulson. Well, fuck. Even Clint’s heart froze._

_“Do go on.” The voice hadn’t changed one iota but somehow there was fresh steel in it._

_“Sir,” Clint began hesitantly, “I don’t think I…”_

_“Barton.” Coulson cut him off cold. “In the circus, did you have a stage name?”_

_The question came apparently from nowhere crisp and edged. Clint frowned. “Yes sir.”_

_“What was it?”_

_If Coulson was going somewhere with this line of enquiry Clint had no idea where that might be, but time was passing so he answered quickly, “The Amazing Hawkeye, sir.”_

_“Right. And who gave it to you?”_

_“My trainer, the ringmaster. Trickshot. Sir, I already…”_

_“And this Trickshot, he was a man prone to compliments was he?” Coulson carried on, barging through Clint’s objections, “Given to praise and flattery?”_

_Involuntarily Clint found his teeth gritting, his hand tightening on the bow’s stock, “No sir. He was definitely not.”_

_Coulson made an understanding noise, “Ahhh. I see.” Clint could practically see the slow nod, the placating smile, “It was flim-flam then. A bit of razzle-dazzle for the posters? Glitter, sawdust and extra sparkle?”_

_That stung. “No!” Clint snapped back, missing out the ‘sir’ in his indignation, “No, it was **my name**. I **earned** it.” _

_“Earned it how Barton? What exactly did you do to earn that ‘Amazing’?” The questions were drawled dryly and Clint felt his hackles rising at the scepticism, the implications._

_“I didn’t miss, **Sir**. I don’t miss.” It came out as more of a growl than he’d intended. _

_Coulson snorted “Ever?”_

_“Never.” He confirmed it proudly, firmly. There was very little in his life so far that could be called perfect but his shot record was and nobody but nobody was going to suggest otherwise, no matter how much of a badass ninja they were. “Not once.”_

_Pfft,” Coulson’s breath was dismissive, bored, disbelieving, “Everybody misses.”_

_Clint didn’t understand it, Coulson wasn’t exactly known for warmth, but what the hell? This was cold. He’d never spoken to Clint like this before, and to start here? Now? It was a shitty, backhanded thing to do. Anger boiled up Clint’s throat and coated his tongue. “ **I** don’t.” he practically hissed it down the comms, “I don’t miss. I. **Never.** Miss.” _

_“Then I don’t expect you’ll start now, will you?”_

_The sudden smile that bloomed in Coulson’s voice had Clint twitching in surprise, “What?”_

_“You don’t miss and you won’t start now.” Firm warmth flooded Clint’s ears as Coulson carried on, “Agent Barton, you can do this. You can do this because you are that good. And you know that’s true. We both do. I wouldn’t have asked for you if it weren’t. Do you hear me?”_

_That absolute fucker._

_Clint wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or straight up punch Coulson for the blatant manipulation but he couldn’t deny it was pretty effective. Coulson’s declared faith cooled the rage heat and it settled lightly on his shoulders like a mantle, and a reminder. His spine straightened as he uncurled, drew himself up and nodded. “I hear you sir.”_

_“Good.” Coulson paused, “We have two minutes until the ground team go in. There’s still time for me to send Epstein up. Or are you good?_

_Clint checked and found that he was. Maybe reeling slightly, feeling thoroughly handled, but steady as a rock. He grinned widely. “Better than good sir, I’m ‘Amazing’.”_

_There was just the slightest, bitten-off hint of a snigger and then, “Good. Then take the shot Hawkeye. Switching you back to public comms.”_

_The comms clicked again as Coulson switched over. Far up and refocused Clint followed the live report of the ground team’s infiltration and two minutes in when Coulson came back on the line to say, “Headed to you Agent Barton, at your discretion,” he loosed without tremor or hesitation. The arrow hit quick and clean and the mark folded neatly to the ground mid-step._

_“Target down.” he reported._

_“Excellent work Agent Barton. Congratulations.” The smile was there in Coulson’s voice again, just the tiniest hint of sunshine showing under the steel. It warmed Clint from the inside and he found himself inordinately pleased to have put it there. Not to mention wishing fervently that he could see it in person. “Ground team,” Coulson continued, “come round to…”_

_Clint tuned out the rest. He folded up his bow, cleared away any evidence of his use of the perch, made his way back to the command truck and hardly noticed a second of any of it. He was too busy replaying the conversation in his head and committing it to memory._

_When he reached the truck Coulson just gave him a terse, congratulatory nod, saying, “Well done Agent Barton. First of many successful operations I hope,” before moving away. It looked like the other conversation wasn’t going to be mentioned again, but that was ok, Clint had it saved. It rang in his ears and replayed in his brain all through the trip back to base. That tiny hint of sunshine. The way Coulson had said ‘we both do.’ As if they were a team. In this together. As if there might just be someone he could rely on after all._

_He smiled to himself. Maybe this fresh start thing would work out._

>>===>>

“Barton? Barton, you’re drifting, come, on, focus, focus Barton, you have to focus, come on….”

Phil’s voice breaks through the fog, pulling Clint up out of his recollections. He’s got a whole library of Phil sounds saved now on his mental playlist; that first exchange is a highlight yeah, but so is the way Phil hums when he’s reading, the way he can snap an entire class to attention with just a word, the sound he makes when an op goes really right and the one for when it goes really wrong. His laugh, precious, infrequent and hard won. Even the way he snores. Clint has heard them all, but he hasn’t heard the particular tone that’s in Phil’s voice now, and he doesn’t like it. It sounds cracked, fractured, like Phil is hurting, and that shouldn’t happen. 

Really, it’s obvious something pretty shit is happening to him but it shouldn’t hurt Phil too. They don’t work that way.

That’s not how this is.

“Ph…” he tries to say, to deliver something witty and reassuring but one of Phil’s hands is on his cheek and his thumb comes up to stop Clint’s lips.

“Hey, no, don’t…just don’t talk, Barton, not right now, just, just…keep still. You need to keep still…” he trails off, stares at Clint for a couple of seconds, face doing something complicated that Clint doesn’t have the energy to track then whips his head round to yell at whatever poor unfortunate happens to be nearest, “There had better be an ETA for my medivac or I will make you personally responsible, do you hear? And get me something else to put on this, this one’s soaked through. Something clean!”

Phil’s left his thumb against Clint’s lips and Clint can’t help touching his tongue against it. There’s salt and dirt and oil and copper but despite all that in a split second Clint’s overwhelmed by the taste of raspberries. 

Now there’s a hell of a memory. 

He’d blush if he had blood to spare. 

And that memory is a bunch more fun than what’s going on now, isn’t it? It definitely is. So Clint concentrates, keeps his eyes on Phil, always on Phil and lets himself tumble back into it.

>>===>>

_“Barton,” Coulson’s voice floated low and calm through the office door he was holding ajar, “you want to hurry up in there at all? This is a business evening as well as a benefit and I assume Arcturo is going to want to return to his office some time. He won’t stay down at the party for the entire night.”_

_Clint paused in his careful drawer rummaging to snort quietly, but rudely, “Like fuck he won’t Coulson, you do remember that you put Nat on distraction duty, right?” He closed one drawer, opened the next and started rifling through papers, “If that sleaze manages to tear his eyes away from your ‘wife’s’ legs before midnight I’ll eat a putty arrow. He didn’t notice us come upstairs did he? And neither did his ‘security’. As long as she keeps dancing and flirting, he’s not going to move an inch. Her hemline alone was criminal.” Finding nothing, he shut that drawer with a huff. “I’m not seeing it. You sure he keeps his records here?”_

_“Certain. My informant was very clear. On a red flash drive.” Coulson opened the door further, leaned in and quirked an eyebrow in that miniscule way that always set Clint wanting to smile even in the tightest situations, “What’s the matter, you have too many beers before we came up here, lose your eyesight?”_

_“Very funny boss. You wrote our damn covers so I know you remember that I, as your humble ‘assistant’ am only allowed to order fizzy mineral water.” Clint tried to sound petulant but both he and Coulson knew it was only for show. They’d worked together long enough now that it was natural to trade banter, even on ops. It was comfortable, easy, actually helped clear his head. A lot of agents he worked with didn’t like his sass much but Coulson always gave as good as he got. Nat too now that she’d joined the team, though of course tonight she was otherwise engaged in occupying the mark while Clint and Phil searched his office. Which reminded him. Clint turned, surveying the office, searching for a less obvious hiding place for the trading records they were looking for but nothing instantly leapt out, “If anyone here should be making digs about drinking it’s me. How many of those weird fruity things did you have?”_

_“Those ‘weird fruity things’ are called Knickerbockers and they’re an underrated classic, I’ll have you know. An old Broadway cocktail.”_

_“Of course they are. You’ll have to let me try one sometime.”_

_Coulson smiled, “If you’re a very good assistant perhaps. But they’re ‘Washington Davies’ favourite, not mine,” he added, referring to the ‘eccentric rich-guy’ cover he’d carefully built for this op and grimacing, “ And I will not be sorry to see him go after we close this. The drinks are the best of it. Three months posing as an uptown asshole of an art critic and wearing clothes this ridiculous just to get an invite to one of Arcturo’s damn parties.” He waved a hand at himself, indicating the clothes in question. Brown slacks just a shade too long and deliberately too tight, embroidered waistcoat in eye-watering orange and pink, near-frilled shirt, spats, oversized glasses, yes, the wardrobe department had really done a number on him this time. “I look like a poor man’s Elton John for god’s sake. This had better be worth it.”_

_Clint rolled his eyes exaggeratedly at Coulson’s complaints. “It will be, so calm your fashionista ass and let me look. You’ll be back in your suits in no time.” He looked round again. Nope, he was still drawing a blank. He stretched, cracked his neck. “Tell me something about Arcturo.”_

_The facts came instantly, “He’s fifty-six, ostensibly an art and antiques dealer, comes from old Greek money and invests in paintings. Wife, four kids aged eight to fifteen…” It was nothing Clint didn’t already have memorised but somehow in Coulson’s quiet voice the details made more sense, the way they always had. “He’s active in animal charity work, takes part in community events, ostensibly an all round good-guy if you don’t count the fact that his money actually comes from the black-market trade of diamonds sourced from illegal mines in Sierra Leone where scores of workers his die every year. He even took first place in a baking competition at his daughter’s school’s autumn fair last year…”_

_The last fact slotted into place with an almost audible click._

_“A-ha! Got it.” Clint grinned and strode over to the glass bookcase by the desk, Amongst the gleaming antiques and shiny business awards the plastic, cupcake-shaped trophy stood out like a sore thumb, “One of these things is not like the others….” Clint picked it up, twisted it, sure enough the base came away letting the red flash drive slide out into his hand. “There you are, gorgeous.” Still grinning he replaced the trophy and went back to the door. Flinging it wide he leaned artfully against the door frame and held the drive out to Coulson with a wink. “Good enough for a Knickerbocker Boss?”_

_Coulson pocketed it, his trademark tiny smile just touching his lips, “I might be persuad…oh, damn.” He swore vehemently as his watch suddenly flared blue, a sure warning that a silent alarm had been triggered. “You must have pressed something in the doorframe. I’d estimate we have forty-five seconds at best before security gets here.”_

_“What?” Clint looked at the frame indignantly, “What kind of fucked-up security goes off after you’ve finished the breaking and entering? Fuck. Ok Boss, what now? Hide?”_

_“No time.” Waving him forward, Coulson reached round to pull the door closed and quickly lock it again using the picks they’d used to get into the office in the first place._

_“Fight?”_

_“Not with Romanov still down there. We can’t compromise her.” The sound of footsteps started to clatter up from the stairwell. Phil seemed to reach a decision, set his face and drew in a deep breath. “My apologies in advance for this Barton.” As he spoke he rapidly undid the shirt buttons at his throat with one hand, pinched his cheeks pink with the other and then to Clint’s astonishment stepped forward and ripped the tails of Clint’s shirt out of his cheap dress pants._

_“What the fu…”_

_Coulson’s mouth swallowed Clint’s question as it crushed down onto his and Clint found himself being hustled back against the office door. It rattled violently in its frame as Clint’s weight hit it, but Coulson didn’t break stride, his mouth moving against Clint’s, insistent, forceful. One hand scruffing the back of Clint’s neck, the other, scaldingly hot, sliding up and under his shirt, Coulson kissed like a drowning man searching for oxygen, all the while making little groaning noises that sent unexpected sparks shuddering through Clint’s belly._

_What in hell was happening?_

_Clint’s lips parted under the strength of Coulson’s onslaught and Coulson’s tongue took it as in invitation to slide through them and deep into his mouth. There was no holding back the whole-body shudder that wracked Clint . Suddenly he was tasting raspberries, the tart bite of the silly, fruity drink he’d just been laughing at now filling his mouth, the taste second-hand and all the more delicious for it. Sweet, bright and underneath something which he absolutely wasn’t going to describe as ‘uniquely Coulson’ because his life wasn’t a bad romance novel, but must actually be how Agent Phil Coulson tasted and **jesus** Clint hadn’t known how much he’d needed that information. The world narrowed down to the unexpected joy of kissing Phil Coulson, the unexpected, brilliant and overwhelming joy, but before he could get totally lost in it the hand under his shirt, pinched him, hard, and Clint realised he was basically just standing there in a daze while Coulson frenched the life out of him. _

_Well. Never let it be said that Hawkeye was any less than a professional who could roll with the punches._

_His hands flashed out, gripping Coulson hard by the hips and pulling him in tight as Clint started to kiss him back in earnest, twisting their tongues slickly together, nibbling at Coulson’s bottom lip and fuck but he was never going to be able to see raspberries in the same way again. Never ever because this, this, was earth-shattering. Amazing._

_Actually, it was too amazing._

_Clint knew he wasn’t this good an actor._

_But, that had to mean…_

_Real. This pulse-racing, skin-tingling, pants-tightening reaction and attraction was **real**. _

_Damn._

_Fuck._

_He had a thing for Coulson?_

_He hadn’t realised._

_**How** had he not realised? _

_Seriously, it wasn’t like he’d not noticed that Coulson was good to look at, that he was damn handsome, because damn, Clint had **eyes** for fuck’s sake but how had he not seen that Coulson was gorgeous? Or, accurately, insanely hot? And more importantly, how had he not known until this precise moment that he, Clint Barton, wanted him? Like **wanted** him? For himself? How the fuck had he **missed** that? _

_Because all at once he did. Oh hell, he desperately, desperately did._

_Clint let one hand slide lower to cup the curve of Coulson’s ass – and fucking hell but there was another revelation in itself – and was rewarded with first a breathless groan and then a throaty growl as Coulson’s hips began rutting against him, hard. The press of it startled a moan out of Clint and Coulson flashed him the wickedest of smiles before burying his face in Clint’s neck and proceeding to suck a messy series of hickies onto his throat. Moaning again, Clint let his head fall back, smacking into the door. It was bouncing madly under their weight and the motion of Coulson’s wicked, sinful hips and Clint suspected it might be about to fall through but he didn’t care because there was nothing, nothing more important in the known universe than this, this, Coulson, **Phil** , here, now, this…_

_“Gentlemen, this area isn’t open to the public tonight. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”_

_It was like a bucket of cold water thrown over him. Clint blinked dazedly at the man speaking. Too much hair oil. Cheap suit. Frown. One of Arcturo’s security then, damn him to fuck!_

_“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Phil lifted his head from Clint’s throat and abruptly, seamlessly he was one hundred percent Washington Davies, shamelessly arrogant aristocrat, “We were just looking for somewhere for a private…conversation. I’m sure you understand.” He leered so crudely that even Clint felt embarrassed for the security guy and he was the one standing there with lovebites all over himself and his shirt untucked. The guard flushed beet red._

_“Of …of course, Sir, but I’ll have to suggest that you two, um…talk, elsewhere. Please. This is Mr Arcturo’s private floor.”_

_“Not a problem, not a problem.” Phil briskly fastened his buttons and Clint hurriedly followed suit, tucking his shirt back in, then almost ripping the damn thing when Phil turned to help out, pushing the material carefully back into Clint’s waistband and smoothing it with a lascivious hand. He chuckled dirtily and winked at Clint, saying, “I’m sure we can finish our ‘chat’ later, can’t we my dear? At home? We wouldn’t want to inconvenience our host.” as if it were the most normal thing in the world._

_It was as much as Clint could do to force a sheepish smile onto his face but it must have seemed in character enough, the embarrassed secretary caught fucking the boss, because the guard coloured again and refused to meet his eyes._

_“Very good Sirs. If you’d use the stairs to your right, enjoy the rest of your evening.”_

_“Oh we will.” Phil smirked as he used one hand to twine his fingers with Clint’s and the other to slip the increasingly mortified man a fifty, “For your discretion.” Then he towed Clint off towards the stairs._

_They made it halfway down before Phil stopped and turned back to Clint, all traces of ‘Washington’ vanishing as soon as they’d come. “Alright?”_

_What could Clint do but nod? “Yeah. Fine. That….worked?”_

_“Usually does,” Phil agreed. “Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable. It can get you out of a tight spot sometimes.” He winced a little. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to warn you what I was going to do._

_Clint was very sure that there was no warning Phil could have given that would have been big enough for the universe-altering revelation he’d just had, so he waved the apology off vaguely. “No worries.”_

_Phil swallowed, “But I have to say Barton, you played it very well. Very realistic.” His eyes flicked to Clint’s, unreadable, “At some points there, I…I could almost have believed it was real.”_

_Shit._

_Clint’s heart jumped in his chest, there was no way he wanted Phil, fuck, no, dammit **Coulson** , to know that for him, for a second it had been real. That he’d want it to be real again because suddenly Coulson was all he could see …No. It had been an **act** , a cover, a clever Coulson plan and nothing else. They were awesome colleagues, team-mates, friends and Clint could not, would not fuck that up with a sudden rush of hormones caused by necessary physical contact in the field. From the depths of his dwindling willpower he dragged out a cheeky smile and tipped Coulson a casual wink, “Well, you know, undercover work. I train with the best.” _

_Coulson’s eyes dropped away from his. “Right.” He sagged slightly and Clint almost, almost put out a hand but, “Right.” all at once Coulson straightened, ‘Washington Davies’ plastered back onto his face, “I congratulate you on your verisimilitude Agent. And I believe I owe you a drink. Shall we?” What could Clint do but take the proffered hand and head downstairs?_

_The rest of the op was murder. Clint felt all wrong. He was too hot, everything was too loud, his skin was too small, his pants definitely too tight and Natasha had gone from smirking at him behind Coulson’s back to shooting him sympathetic looks within minutes of them returning to the table. And the damn raspberries. He couldn’t get rid of the taste. No matter how much fizzy water he drank that sweetness clung and haunted, flavouring every breath he took._

_By the time Clint made it back to his room on base he was resigned to it. So he had a crush on his handler. A crush which had been apparently building for a while and looked set to stay for a while too. Well, so what? He wasn’t the first agent ever to find himself in a mess like this and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be the last, especially not where Coulson was concerned. But he wasn’t going to make an ass of himself and ruin a good thing by trying to make it **be** anything. Crushes were stupid, fleeting things that left ruin in their wake if you tried to act on them so he was just going to have to keep his mouth shut and his feelings to himself. Which would be a bummer for a while, sure, but a feeling as strong this surely couldn’t last forever. He could be professional and ride it out. If he wanted more, no-one had to know. _

_And if he woke hot and hard in the night with the memory of Phil in his hands and the ghost of raspberries on his tongue, if he tasted that sweetness when he came calling Phil’s name out into the dark, well. No-one had to know that either. Especially not Coulson._

_It was bound to pass. These things always did._

_Didn’t they?_

_> >===>>_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER: In this chapter Phil and Clint are caught where they shouldn't be during an op. To deflect suspicion and as part of their cover Phil thoroughly kisses Clint without asking for permission or warning him first. Clint is surprised but professional and then unsurprisingly enthusiastic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, apologies this has taken me a little longer than intended, but thanks for all your feedback! Glad to hear you're liking the structure of this one, it was fun to play with! Hope you enjoy this next part.
> 
> Trigger warning for non-consensual drug use (recounted), see notes at the end if you need more details.

>>===>>

It hadn’t passed, of course it hadn’t. It had done nothing but get stronger and stronger every day with Clint never ever saying a word about it to Phil. Ever.

He regrets that now because he could do with some of those raspberries right now. Right now the taste in his mouth is all copper; old pennies and sour red wine and he wants to spit but he can’t sit up to get the angle. 

Phil’s hands, they’re still on him. Holding him down. They might be the only thing stopping him from floating away.

He drools down himself instead and even that feels wrong. Too hot. Too sticky.

“Oh thank fuck.” Phil’s voice cracks again but this time Clint recognises the cause. That one, that’s relief. There’s a lot of noise and suddenly a lot of people asking a lot of questions. ‘What happened’ this and ‘how much’ that and ‘how deep’ the other. It’s a lot of fuss he could honestly manage without because he’s feeling tired now, so fucking tired.

Another of those scratches in his thigh and that’s nice except apparently the bastards are giving whatever it is to him so that they can lift him onto some sort of stretcher and that isn’t nice at all. Frankly it’s fucking unpleasant, someone is making some godawful held-in screaming noises and he’s almost certain he hears one of his teeth crack. Yes, it’s _really_ fucking unpleasant so when Phil comes to the head of the stretcher to tell him,

“It’s alright Barton, almost over, we’ve got you,”

he turns his head best he can and buries his face in Phil’s side, breathes him in. Expensive cloth. Coffee. Hints of powdered sugar. The ginger in the body wash he likes. That ink from the old-fashioned pen he insists on.

“Well done Agent Barton, you just try to relax,” a voice tells him and here, Clint knows he can. He breathes.

Ginger.

Cloth.

Ink.

Sugar.

Coffee.

_Phil_.

Home.

He breathes deep.

>>===>>

_“Booooossssssss!” The medbay door lock clicked and Clint looked up from watching the fascinating way the lines in his feet moved when he wiggled his toes and grinned at his handler, “Phiiillllll! You came!”_

_Phil stepped into the room, followed by yet another white-coated medic, himself a vision in black sweats, kit bag in hand, obviously fresh from the gym. At Clint’s enthusiastic greeting his eyes widened very very briefly, and then his face smoothed out again, “Of course I did, Barton.” He nodded, “How are you feeling?”_

_“Awww, me?” Clint flapped a loose hand dismissively. “I’m awesome Agent Bossman, dope, fresh and funky, I am da bomb. Da big bomb, like… boom!” He flared jazz hands and rattled his lips in an explosion noise. It somehow was the funniest thing he’d heard in ages, so he took some time out to giggle happily, looking to Phil to share the joke._

_Instead Phil’s turned to the medic, his brow furrowed, “Is he alright?”_

_Clint scowled, because noooo, that wasn’t fair, Phil had come to see him, not to talk to the whitecoat lady! He shifted to stand up but the way his legs hung out of the bottom of the robe medical had made him wear and the sight of his toes flexing caught his eye again. Sitting back he chuckled and wiggled them for Phil’s attention, “Hey, hey Bossson, did ya see these? Look at ‘em, look, I c’n wriggle them this way, **aaaaannnnnd** I c’n wriggle them that way too!” He demonstrated entusiastically, grinning. _

_Sadly, Clint's wriggling somehow didn’t seem to captivate Phil as much as he’d hoped. In fact Phil’s frown deepened even further and he looked at the medic **again**._

_“Doctor?”_

_She smiled reassuringly. “He’s fine Agent Coulson, honestly. Euphoria and distraction are just symptoms of the drug in his system.”_

_Drug! Now that word sparked in Clint’s brain and reminded him that he had news Phil would definitely want to hear. “Hey!” he waved until he had Phil’s eye again, “I got drugged! Agent Coulman, did you know that? I…” he swayed on the edge of the padded medical bay cot to wave his finger at Phil earnestly, “have been **drugged**.” He swayed a little too far, wobbled, the floor loomed dangerously close and then suddenly Phil was there straightening him up, making the room still. His hand on Clint’s arm was warm and steadying. Clint beamed. “Drugged!” he repeated happily. _

_Phil’s mouth twitched in that tiny, almost-smile way Clint found so endearing. He wanted to reach out and touch it, maybe would have, except the smile moved. Why did it have to move? Oh, yeah, Phil was talking again, “I did hear that Barton, yes. Be aware this may be the last time I let you and Romanov out for drinks on your own.”_

_“Oh.” Clint was momentarily crestfallen - because where was the fun if Phil knew all the news?- but then… yes, there was more! He leaned over to Phil and smirked, “But! did ya hear that we got Miller too? Miiiillllller! Three months we spent chasin’ tha’ little rat and he just walks into the bar! And we got him! Ha! How about them…thingies…” he faltered, “small, round…fruity thingies…” Clint searched determinedly for the right word, “plums!” it came to him in a burst of triumph, “How’d y’ like them plums?”_

_That surprised a laugh out of Phil and Clint’s entire body sparkled. Phil actually laughing wasn’t rare but it wasn’t common either, and he, Clint, had made it happen! He **was** awesome. _

_“The…plums…are just fine Barton. Miller has been a target for a while and it’s good to have him in finally. But…” awww, the frown was coming back again! What was Phil worrying about now? “…was this,” Phil gestured at the bay, at Clint, the medic, “really the best plan my two top agents could come up with?”_

_It was Clint’s turn to frown. They'd caught the bad guy! So why wasn’t Phil more impressed? Maybe he needed it explaining a bit more._

_“It was a good plan Coulboss , honest. Y' see, Miller’s lookin’ to get lucky so I do a bit of dancin’ y’know, to get him interested,” he looked at Phil and shook his best shimmy, just to help Phil with the visuals, but the way Phil’s eyes went wide just a fraction was intriguing enough to make him do it again. And, yeah, ok, so he almost toppled over again the second time, but there was Phil, still holding him up. And that was great. Clint stared at Phil's hand, fascinated._

_Hang on, wasn’t he telling a story?_

_Oh, yeah, right, “ so then I let him buy drinks, sure, I see him messing with mine but that's the idea, so I wait a bit, chat, smile, y’know…give it 'time to work', then he takes me out to the back room to have his wicked way and Nat falls on him like a ton of bricks!” Clint giggled and lifted a hand to Phil for a high five. He was slightly put out not to receive one. What was Phil’s…ah. of course. “Quiet bricks though, very very quiet bricks, like, shhhhhh. Quiet as mouses. Mousey bricks.”_

_Weirdly, the clarification didn’t seem to be helping. Phil just looked pained, instead of proud, his mouth had gone tighter. “But why," he asked, "did you do decide it this way? I mean…” Phil gestured sharply at Clint, “like **this**?”_

_Clint blinked. Wasn't it obvious? “Come on Bossman, had ta take one for the team. Needed to look real, din't it? Miller w’s so busy thinking he had me he din’ bring his goons. We had ta have…," what was that word Phil used? "verisimilitude” Clint had no idea why Phil flinched. But that frowny forehead was still there and Clint needed it gone. So he smiled. “Besides, it was me or ‘Tasha and everyone knows I’m the prettiest.” Leaning into Phil Clint gazed up at him with his best puppydog expression and fluttered his eyelashes, “Aren’t I?”_

_Now Phil blinked, then he pinked (oh god! adorable!), snorted and finally, finally smiled. Score two to Hawkeye! Shaking his head indulgently, Phil said, “Well. I can see I’m not going to get any more sense out of you today Agent.” He called to the medic still hovering in the doorway, “Doctor? How long until Agent Barton can leave?”_

_“Now, actually sir.” The medic replied, “The drug is already wearing off and we expect if Agent Barton gets some sleep that he’ll have no side effects other than those that would come with a normal hangover. We’ve seen this intoxicant before, it’s pretty straightforward.” Now she was frowning at Clint! Jeez, what a day..what had he done now? “We did tell Agent Barton this when he arrived but he refused to get into the bed and insisted he wouldn’t stay in medical.”_

_Ah, yeah, that. Well, who could blame him? “Nope. I won't.” Clint agreed with her, flaring his nostrils theatrically, “It smells baaaaad.”_

_She ignored him. “I’m given to understand that attempting to keep Agent Barton here against his will is a pointless exercise in frustration. So I didn’t try. But Agent Romanov advised us to call you when she dropped him off and he agreed to wait when we told him you were on your way.”_

_Clint nodded happily. “Knew you’d come. C’n we leave now?”_

_Phil looked to the medic, who waved at the door, “Be my guest.”_

_“Alright then.” Phil straightened from his perch on the bed, “Let’s get you back to quarters.”_

_“Awesome!” Clint threw off the medical robe, jumped up and took a wobbly step towards the door -hey, look at that! His toes were apparently good for walking as well as wiggling!- but stopped when no one followed. He turned to see the medic looking pointedly at the ceiling and Phil shaking his head. “What?”_

_“Clothes, Barton?”_

_He looked down. “These are clothes.” Clint pinged his waistband, just to clarify._

_“Those are boxer shorts. Not entirely a full outfit. Where are your other clothes?”_

_Clint shrugged. “They were itchy.” He wrinkled his nose, “And they smelled like Miller.”_

_“Doctor?”_

_She shook her head. “He came in like that I’m afraid Sir. Apparently he took them off on the way here.” She was walking out of the room as she spoke, calling back “Agent Romanov said to tell you ‘you’re welcome.’”_

_“Of course she did.” Phil sighed, “Clint, put the robe back on.”_

_“No-pe.” Clint popped the ‘p’, and then did it again because that was almost as good as the explosion noise, “no-pe. That smells too.”_

_“You can’t walk back to your quarters in just your boxers.”_

_There didn’t seem to be any problem that Clint could see. They were clean, he was warm enough, weren’t those the two main clothing requirements? “Why not?”_

_“Because now is not the time to incite a riot, that’s why not.” Phil said through gritted teeth “Damn it.” He unzipped the gym hoodie he was wearing and held it out, “Try this? It’s not ideal but it should cover your modesty.”_

_Clint took it and sniffed cautiously. Now that, that was what he was looking for. This was right. A smooth warmth spread through him, a firm, safe feeling. “This smells like you.”_

_Phil grimaced, “Sorry, I was at the gym when medical called…if you wait I, can go find you something…”_

_“No!” Clint exclaimed, struggling into the hoodie. Soft and still warm from Phil’s body it was how he imagined a hug from Phil might feel. Awesome. He was not taking this off! “This, this is good.” He battled the zip for a moment, gave up and wrapped the hoodie shut, folded his arms over the flapping bits to hold it closed. “I like it. You smell good Phil. Super good. Excellent good even. I like how you smell. I like a lot about you.” He beamed, nodding._

_Phil for his part walked over and tugged the hoodie free from Clint’s crossed arms. He was muttering under his breath as he slid the zip closed and it sounded like “distraction and euphoria Coulson, it’s just distraction and euphoria” but Clint couldn’t be sure. He was too busy enjoying the soft fabric riding on his shoulders. Somehow, it made him happy._

_Still grinning he took one of Phil’s arms and folded it so that Phil’s hand went to his hip and made a triangle. Then he threaded his own arm through so they’d linked elbows, ignored Phil’s pained groan and used the other hand to twirl one of the hoodie strings jauntily, “Okay, Agent Coulbosson. Take me home.”_

_Phil groaned again and picked up his gym bag. “This is going to be a long walk, isn’t it?”_

>>===>>

_“Oh my gooooddddd,”_

_Clint cracked an eyelid and the brightness seared in, spearing straight through to his pounding brain. It was too **bright**._

_“turn off the liiiiggghht…”_

_Flopping over he risked another sliver of eyelid. Oh. Ok. Not light. Sun. Maybe asking the sun to turn off was a little bit excessive. He settled for grabbing at his covers and dragging them over his face._

_In the blessed dimness, Clint took stock. Ok, so he had….a headache that could stun a warthog, the driest mouth ever experienced on planet earth and a vague sense that he may have made quite an ass of himself in medical._

_And possibly on the way to medical._

_Aaannnd on the way back to his rooms after medical._

_Yup._

_He should feel terrible. And he did, but…not exactly. There was something here keeping the worst of it away (and, as the memories filtered back he realised there was quite a lot of ‘worst of it’…Had he really stripped off in the alley behind a Taco Bell? And hugged Natasha while she was cuffing the mark? Great. He’d not only dumpstered his favourite shirt but also incited death. Yay…). So what was it? Something in his room was…different. Something that both settled him and set his stomach skittering with a fizzle of excitement. Something…._

_Still under his blanket Clint tried for a steadying breath through his nose and suddenly he had it. Ginger. Coffee. The tiniest hint of sugar…_

_Regardless of his suffering skull Clint bolted upright and the blanket covering his face slid into his lap. Only it wasn’t a blanket, it was a hoodie. Coulson’s gym hoodie_.

_Oh damn, because Coulson had been the one who came to medical, who had brought him home and put him to bed. And, looking at the way Clint’s chair was angled and the given the fact that Clint’s actual blanket was folded neatly on it, who had stayed to watch over him._

_That was embarrassing. And amazing. And horribly frustrating. He’d had Phil Coulson in his room all night and not even known about it? That was…unfair._

_His head throbbed. And **jesus** he was thirsty. Clint twisted to scrabble after the water glass he kept on the bedside table and found instead a note in Phil’s writing. _

_**Barton –** _

_**I have an early meeting, didn’t want to wake you. You seem to be sleeping normally but I’ll be coming back to check you at 9 and if you feel at all strange when you read this CALL MEDICAL. No arguments.**_

_**Debrief for your little adventure is at 11.**_

_**I used your shower. Call it nurse’s perks.**_

_**P.C.**_

 

_Oh god._

_If he felt at all strange?? **If?** He’d just woken up with the mother of all headaches, remembered that he’d embarrassed himself fairly thoroughly in front of his boss, who also happened to be the guy he had an insane crush on, and finally realised that said guy had not only spent the night in his room but also had been naked in there? **Wet and naked?**_

_Clint groaned. He wasn’t sure that there was any stranger way to feel. Life really was fucking unfair._

_He let himself wallow for a few moments but the thirst issue became too pressing again and he reached out for the glass. Which was full. With clean water. And had two pain pills and half a packet of Little Debbie donuts next to it. The sugared kind._

_Coulson._

_All at once the strangeness drained away and left Clint, well, glowing. He felt shitty still, but content. Because the headache and the embarrassment were nothing compared to this glaring, wonderful evidence. Coulson cared. Over and above anything else, despite Clint’s weirdness last night, despite the admittedly, not-particularly-clever mess he’d gotten himself into, despite all the stupid things he’d no doubt done or said, Coulson cared. He might not share Clint’s attraction, and no, Clint wasn’t mad enough to think that he could ever catch Coulson’s eye that way, but despite that, he cared. And he’d shared his donuts, which, for Coulson, was legitimately over and above._

_An old, empty hole in his soul gently filled. Clint had a place. Honestly and truly, perhaps for the first time ever, and this proved it. A place, and people._

_The realisation was a weight lifted and reshaped into a soft blanket that Clint just wanted to huddle under for a while, to absorb. The clock showed that it was only 7:30, and that meant he'd have time. So he did. Downing the water and pills and snuggling back down under the covers Clint let himself fall back into sleep, safe in the knowledge that someone was coming to check on him, to catch him._

_He curled himself around the hoodie, relaxed, breathed. Sugar and spice followed him into his dreams._

>>===>>

_The debrief that followed was short and simple. ‘Effective plan but dangerous, don’t do it again. Next time remember you can **always call for back up**. Dismissed.’ _

_Clint kept the hoodie. He kept it safe, only took it out when he needed the reminder, reassurance. He could always call for back up._

_He kept it until it no longer smelled like Phil._

_And then he kept it some more anyway._

>>===>>

The lights on the medevac jet are too bright. Clint doesn’t want to come out of the dark safe haven that is Phil’s jacket, but they make him anyway, because they need more room round the table or something. Bastards. 

There’s still too much fuss and raised voices. More jostling and tubes and needles and gore-smattered dressings being dropped to the floor. He’s honestly too worn out for all this shit. 

Phil moves back and the distance feels like an aching void that’s almost worse than whatever the hell the medteam are doing to him. Something horribly push-y and then fold-y and kinda like someone doing the washing up in his stomach. What is it? He tries to lift his head to see, but, 

“Don’t.” 

Phil’s voice is quiet but insistent, even from so far away and it drags Clint’s eyes round like a lodestone to where Phil’s standing. Half in the shadows, his muscles strained, his whole body pulled tight, his face is drawn, with a tiny smile he’s obviously put there just for Clint but that looks like a lie. 

“Don’t, Barton. Keep your eyes on me. That’s right. Eyes just on me.” 

Fine with Clint. There’s nothing here that he’d rather look at anyway. He can’t seem to summon the hot spike of lust and want and excitement that watching Phil usually inspires however. This feels softer. More like longing. More like losing. 

He looks at Phil. 

Phil looks at him. 

He looks at Phil. 

>>==>>>

_“Nat!” Clint rapped repeatedly on Nat’s door, “Nat-tash-a! Open up, come on, come on, come on…..” he juggled impatiently from foot to foot, waiting for his favourite red-head to come to the door. When she did, it was with a frown._

_“What?”_

_“It’s coming, it’s coming in, let’s go!” He grabbed her hand to pull her out of the room but was stopped short by her complete immovability. It was like trying to drag a full-grown oak, her feet were planted. He whined impatiently, “Naaaat!”_

_Flicking a smug eyebrow, score one, she dropped his hand, “Clinton, if you’ve come to tell me that Coulson’s quinjet is going to be landing in less than thirty minutes then firstly, I have to remind you that the records for his mission were classified above your level and that you shouldn’t have hacked into them…”_

_Clint sighed, “I know, I know, but…hang on! Nat, if you know that it’s under thirty minutes then **you** must have…”_

_There went the eyebrow again, score two, “and secondly, ask you why you think we need to rush? Coulson will have to attend debrief, and then he will need to sleep and then doubtless we will be the first people he seeks out.” she stalked back into her room, slid neatly back onto the bed and picked up the magazine he’d obviously interrupted. “Going to the hangar won’t make any of that happen any faster.”_

_“Sure, I know that, but he’s been gone five months Nat. Five months deep cover.” Clint followed Nat into the room and perched on the edge of the bed. “I just thought it would be cool to meet the jet, give Coulson a wave or something. Let him know we’re glad to have him back.”_

_The pages rustled at Nat stared at him over the top of them. “And are we glad to have him back?”_

_Clint laughed, “Oh, don’t even try that inscrutable Russian thing on me Natasha. You know we are!”_

_“Why is that?”_

_“Because,” Clint huffed, getting frustrated because he **needed** Nat to come with, going down there alone would just be…weird. “Because he’s our friend, right? He’s a good friend. A laugh. And he’s Strike Team Delta’s handler. Which means that now he’s back we’ll start getting the interesting missions again, not just babysitting and milk-runs. Come on, you know you’re glad about that. And because…” Abruptly aware that his mouth was running away with him Clint snapped it closed. _

_“And because…..?” Nat prompted._

_Oh, there was no way Clint was going to fall for that. As much as he knew that Natasha had to know that he had more than professional feeling for Coulson (damn that crush which had never gone away. He tried to be professional, subtle, to check him out only as little as was humanely possible, but Nat was the Black Widow for fuck’s sake, and very little got past her) he wasn’t about to stone-cold admit it, because that would suggest it was real. And it wasn’t. Fantasies were fantasises and they had no impact on reality. His crush, strong as it might be, was irrelevant. And to mention it now would make it look like he only wanted to go down there to ogle or something. “Because it would be a nice thing to do and we’re good people?” he offered instead._

_Nat stared at him unblinking for a moment then sighed, snapped the magazine closed and stood. “You’re an idiot.”_

_Clint grinned and grabbed her hand again, “I’ll take it. Let’s go.”_

>>===>>

_The jet was landing and unloading agonisingly slowly. What could they possibly be doing that would take so damn long? Clint glanced quickly at his watch, landed for only two minutes? It couldn’t be, he’d been watching for longer than that, surely. Lifting it to his ear he gave it a shake, it must have broken._

_“Clint.” Nat snapped quietly from beside him, “Stop fidgeting. You’re making the whole balcony shake.”_

_“Sorry.” Clint dropped his hands back his sides and balled them into fists. He bit his lip. What was wrong with him? His heart was pounding, his stomach felt jittery, he could hardly keep still. Was he sweating? He was sweating. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. “Nat, I might just head…”_

_“Shhh,” she silenced him, “here they are.”_

_Down the unloading ramp came a long line of agents. Obviously tired, they were carrying bags and boxes that spoke volumes about a long and complicated op most were still smiling, joking with each other and the landing crew. Things must have ultimately gone well. Clint wanted to relax, but couldn’t. The line of agents seemed endless, tacsuit after tacsuit after tacsuit, and then, finally, when he was just about to scream with frustration, the only suit he actually cared about, Coulson’s._

_Coulson looked similarly tired, a bit thinner maybe, or perhaps more toned, sharp as ever, worn but happy, and the sight of him filled Clint’s gut with a warm relief that made his shoulders sag. He flicked a grin at Nat and lifted his hand, making it halfway to the wave he’d come to deliver and stopping frozen when Coulson turned. Instantly Coulson spotted them, met Clint’s eyes and his whole face just lit up. He smiled. He smiled the biggest, truest smile Clint had ever seen on his face and almost destroyed Clint’s heart entirely. It was like being stabbed through the chest with a spear of pure sunshine and the impact of that brilliant beam drove the air out of Clint’s lungs with a thud._

_What?_

_Gaping and helpless he looked over at Natasha who was eyeing him knowingly._

_“Is the penny perhaps, as you say, in the air?”_

_Clint looked back at Coulson who was still smiling. Oh lord. He tried to remember how to function. God, that bright smile, those damn blue eyes, even across the distance Clint was drowning in them both. He felt raw, like someone had plucked him out of a shell and left him pink and vulnerable under a big wide sky. Coulson looked amazing. He looked stunning. He looked exactly the same and yet totally different and what in fuck was going on? It was as if Clint was seeing him for the first time and he was gorgeous, yes, undoubtedly, but also something way, way beyond that…_

_Down on the hangar floor Coulson’s hands flickered into quick motion and while Clint just about managed to make out that he was using some of the private language the three of them had developed in the course of running Delta ops together he couldn’t for the life of him work out what he were saying or how to answer. His own fingers felt like lead, his whole body disobeying him._

_Natasha must have replied because Coulson nodded once, then flicked a glance over at Clint still frozen in his half wave, and his smile faltered. He frowned, just slightly, then smoothed out his features, gave Clint a nod, then spun and strode to the door of the hangar._

_Fuck._

_Clint wanted Coulson to turn round. To wave again. To come closer. He wanted to leap down to the hangar floor, run over, sweep him up and kiss the life out of him. Of course Clint always ached to kiss him but this wasn’t the usual ‘damn you’re so hot, I want you so bad’ kind of aching, or at least not just that, this was ‘damn, I’ve missed you so much, let me hold you, let me see you, let me know you’re alright, I lo…’_

_Oh._

_**Oh**_

_Oh holy fucking mother of god._

_Clint grunted as if punched, the noise rising uncontrolled from somewhere deep and heartfelt in his guts, and twisted back to slump against the rail. Nat was smirking at him again. Definitely score three._

_“And the penny has finally dropped has it?” she said._

_“Nat…”_

_“The Amazing Hawkeye, who 'never misses', finally spotted the blindingly obvious?”_

_He grimaced. “Don’t tease me.”_

_“I’m not. I’m just pleased that you’ve finally pulled your head from out of your behind. All this time convincing yourself it was only an infatuation. Idiot.” She said the last fondly, but Clint wasn’t sure it made him feel any better._

_“Nat, what do I do?”_

_She regarded him with a deliberately blank expression. “About what?”_

_“Naaaattttt…”_

_“No. Say it Clint. You need to say it.”_

_“I…” he swallowed, “I love him. I’m in love with Phil.”_

_Gently, Nat took his face between her hands, gave him a little squeeze and the warmest smile, “Yes you are my Little Bird. And you have been for a long, long time.”_

_She was right. Of course she was. He’d never let himself see it before, but just seeing Phil again, just that one look had burned away every carefully built layer of denial. Just a crush? Only an infatuation? Oh, he'd been a liar. The truth was suddenly clear as crystal, and just as sparkling. And as sharp._

_He was exhilarated._

_He was terrified._

_“Nat? What do I do?”_

_Releasing him, she straightened up and brushed imaginary dust off her uniform. “Well, according to the plans Coulson and I just made for when he gets out of debrief, first you fetch pizza.” Clint huffed but she ignored it, “And then we eat it and let Coulson tell us stories about this op that we weren’t allowed to join him on. And after that…” he looked up hopefully, “after that I can’t tell you what to do. That’s up to you Little Bird. It’s your heart. And yes,” she patted him fondly on the shoulder, “I know that was no real help. Nevertheless. My rooms, two hours. Make it stuffed crust.”_

_And with that last order, she walked away. Left him with a spinning head and the burning hot coal of his new feelings lodged hot and hard in his chest._

_What was he going to do? Did he want to tell Phil how he felt? Did he dare? Could he handle Phil’s reaction, the aftermath that would inevitably follow no matter which way it went? Clint’s stomach roiled with sick nerves just thinking about it._

_So…no?_

_But that would mean that if there was any chance he could be with Phil, any tiny, minuscule chance that might possibly be hiding in the remotest corner of the universe, it would never have any opportunity to happen. And that possibility sucked so much that it made his actual soul hurt._

_So…maybe yes?_

_Maybe?_

_Clint shook his head to clear the paralysis._

_But not today, he reasoned. It couldn't be today. Not when Phil was just home, not when he’d be tired and full of news and tired and ready to catch up on all the gossip and tired and…oh, his brain needed to shut up. But seriously, it wasn’t like he could just crack out, ‘Oh hey, by the way Boss, I just realised I’m madly in love with you, wanna get a coffee?’, over pizza at Nat’s was it? Nope, if he was ever going to tell Phil how he now knew he really felt, and he almost probably certainly might, the timing would have to be absolutely perfect. To give him the best chance of getting any answer that he might want to hear, he'd have to play this carefully. So keeping quiet for now would just be a...sensible thing to do._

_He had excellent logic skills. Satisfied, Clint pushed himself up off the rail and headed out to walk, very slowly, to Nat’s preferred pizzeria, content in the knowledge that he had a plan. A sensible, logical, awesome plan._

_It was just a case of waiting for the right moment and then being honest about his feelings. How hard could that be?_

>>==>>

The medics finally finish whatever it is they’re fussing at and back off, leaving a strange empty drowsiness for Clint to float in. He’s still looking at Phil. Hasn’t taken his eyes off him once, might never again. The right moment...ha. Where has waiting for that gotten him? Only here, strapped to a gurney with god knows what hole in him and a sudden realisation that it would never have come. Or perhaps that truthfully the right moment had been every single moment since the day he and Phil had met. One moment, no moment, all the moments. Either way, he’s missed them all. 

Clint groans and suddenly Phil’s right there at his side again. 

“Barton? Is it getting worse? Do you need more meds?” 

Clint’s vision’s starting to blur at the edges and it occurs to him that _this_ might be the right moment. This it might have to be it, because the pain’s mostly gone but he doesn’t feel at all good and maybe there won’t be any more moments, full stop. 

“Phil?” he manages to choke out past the terrible taste in his mouth and his sour, too-quick breathing, “Phil?” 

“I’m right here Barton. What is it?" 

Phil’s hand sweeps up, brushes Clint's cheek and presumably his brow. Clint can see it move, but he can’t feel it somehow. Everything’s going numb. If his brain is a computer then someone has pressed the shutdown button and there’s nothing Clint can do about it. 

"Phil.” he gasps, desperate to get it out before the approaching dark, “ You ’member, once, I told you I liked a lot of things about you?” Every word hurts, is a sword in his guts but he has to say them. 

“I remember.” Phil’s voice is calm, collected, a balm, god, that voice. Clint wants to sob. Hasn’t time. 

“Didn’t mean it.” 

That startles a snort out of Phil, sort of a choked laugh and a sad smile, “Understandable. As I recall you were very, very drugged at the time. Perhaps you shouldn’t talk Barton, don’t waste your energy…” 

“No, no, no,” damn it, that was wrong, he can’t screw this up, not here, not now not on his last chance. His tongue is heavy, it takes too much effort to move it, but he somehow does, pants, pushes out, “not…fuck. Phil. I don’ _like_ lots of things about you, I love them. You. I love you.” 

Instantly Phil’s pale as a ghost and even through the black spots in his vision Clint sees his eyes go huge. “What?” It’s barely a whisper. 

It strikes Clint that at any other time he’d be happy to shock Phil, to surprise Agent Coulson, but right now he just wants to make him understand. He clenches the last pieces of his strength together and squeezes, feeling inside something give, maybe break. All around him machines start whistling and beeping but Clint ignores them. The only thing that matters is staring at him, eyes wide as the sea, “Love you Phil. F’r a long time. Should’ve said it before. Finally missed something, hey? Last chance now, I guess. So. I love you. Doesn’t matter that you…if…just, love you." 

" _Clint…_ ” his name breaks in Phil's mouth and cuts into Clint's heart, but whatever else Phil’s saying gets cut off by the sudden reappearance of the med team. Phil's lips are still moving but Clint can’t hear over their fussing and he can’t focus enough to lip-read right now. Doesn’t matter. He feels strangely peaceful. Like all the hustle and bustle is happening behind glass or at the end of a long tunnel. He’s said what he had to say and that’ll do. 

Besides, Phil’s still here. 

That’ll still do. Always. 

Clint fell for Phil in pieces, hearing, taste, smell, sight, but never touch, not really, not for real. Never had the chance. He loves him with the pieces he has anyway, but they’re all going away now. 

He breathes in, as best he can. 

It looks like Phil’s shouting again, or maybe even screaming, but Clint could swear he’s hearing a soft voice, telling him to take the shot. He tastes raspberries. Smells sugar, ink, ginger, sees the man he adores. Feels…nothing.

Shutdown complete. He’s going offline. 

The dark comes. 

He breathes out. 

>>===>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER: This chapter shows events that after Clint has been drugged by someone planning to assault him. This is recounted, not seen, and the assault doesn't happen. Clint has in fact knowingly let himself be drugged as part of a sting, he had Natasha watching his back the whole time and by the time we see him he is safe in medical with Phil on his way. But just so you know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, my apologies that this has taken so long. I had the whole thing written and then the brain stepped in and demanded another, longer scene. The story itself originally ended at the first arrow-break (>>===>>) and the rest is pure self indulgence because the brain would not be denied. I hope nobody minds too much!
> 
> Secondly, yes, I have upped the rating due to this additional scene. Again, hope this causes no problems for anyone!
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely feedback on this, it's been a blast to write and I hope you enjoy the ending x

>>===>>

Clint breathes in. 

Which is, frankly, a massive surprise. 

Enough of one that he quickly does it again and then coughs weakly when the smells of disinfectant, drugs, starch and pain burn through his nose, down his throat, leaving a foul taste in his mouth. Medical. Shit. The sound of beeping monitors echoes weirdly in that way that only happens in mostly empty, white-walled, hard floored, rooms. Definitely medical.

He’s what would probably be described in medical’s terms as ‘comfortable’, which in reality means he feels pretty much like someone ran him over with a truck. A sharp truck. Carrying an elephant or two. He wriggles a little, tries to stretch and stops with a hiss. That was…not nice. Everything aches. Except for his left hand. His left hand just feels incredibly warm. Cautiously, Clint cracks an eyelid to see if he can find out why.

Oh.

Because Phil’s holding it.

Right.

That’s….

What?

Clint’s grateful that the doctors have left him slightly propped up because from this angle he can get a good look at the vision by his bedside. Phil’s dozing over the edge of the mattress, head nodding. He’s crumpled, slightly stubbly, still wearing the same shirt he’d been wearing on the mission, complete with the rolled up sleeves that are presumably hiding the…well…yeah, blood. It’s very un-Coulson. But if Phil looks like that then that can only mean that either Clint hasn’t been here very long, which doesn’t feel like it can be right, or that he has but that Phil hasn’t left him. Which feels… 

Right on cue, as if Clint’s scrutiny has summoned him back from his nap, Phil’s eyelids start to flicker. When they open properly Phil’s looking right at Clint and his face just lights up with relief until he’s practically glowing. He squeezes Clint’s hand, the most welcome pressure Clint’s ever experienced.

This feels like a real moment, Clint wants to say something moving, profound, something that really says exactly what it means to him that Phil’s here. He clears his sticky throat.

“Hey.” 

Damn. 

But, Phil looks pleased. 

“Hey yourself.” 

There’s a long silence, which Phil fills by freeing one hand to hold up a glass of water with a straw in it for Clint to suck. The other hand stays entwined with Clint’s, the warm sun at the centre of their own personal universe. Clint tries again,

“I’m still alive then?” 

“Yes.” Phil chuckles. “Thankfully. It was touch and go for a while, and you needed a lot of blood before we got you back here. But…here you are.”

He shrugs and the movement draws Clint’s eye to a bandaid stuck neatly in the crook of his elbow. In fact, both his elbows. Pair that to Phil’s paleness and…Clint makes an inarticulate squeak. Noticing where he’s looking, Phil shrugs again. “They were running out, and we’re compatible, so...”

Clint can hardly breathe. “Boss…”

“Oh.” Phil’s smile falters, his face twists, “Back to Boss again is it?”

“I…” Clint doesn’t really know how he’s planning on ending that sentence, but it apparently doesn’t really matter because Phil interrupts him again,

“Don’t. Oh, god, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, this isn’t fair, and I know it isn’t fair because you literally just woke up,” the words rattle out of Phil, an avalanche, “I told myself I wouldn’t, that I’d let you… but I’ve…I’ve been going crazy here. I have to ask. I have to.” Phil stops, takes a huge breath, steadies himself and meets Clint’s eyes again in a way that kinda terrifies him more than the babbling but that is impossible to break away from. “Clint, you said some things to me. On the Quinjet. Before you blacked out. Important things, I think.” He shudders in more air and it comes out in a rush, “Clint, do you remember, do you remember what you told me?” he closes his eyes as if against a blow, “Clint, god…Clint, did you mean it?”

Clint thinks back. There was the pain, and the dust and the dark. Phil was there and he’d had things to say, important things, the taste of raspberries, smell of ginger, blood, the shutdown. The sense of having done something he needed to do… 

And he can’t…he can’t quite grasp it exactly. 

He isn’t sure what he’d said, or which of the words trapped so long inside him had actually made it out. He almost hedges, almost goes to joke, but one look at Phil’s carefully composed face and he can’t. He mustn’t. Because what’s the point of being given a second last chance if you don’t prove you’re worth it?

“I don’t,” he starts, “I don’t remem…”

“Oh. Alright.” Phil’s eyes squeeze very tight then pop open, full of kind, hurt acceptance, and suddenly he’s gently untwisting his fingers from Clint’s, “That’s fine, Barton, don’t, don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you’re awake. I’ll just…I’ll just fetch someone to check on you.”

He stands, and Clint’s hand is cold, ice cold and lonely on the bedsheets and he can’t stand it for one second more.

“No!” Clint throws the word like a lifeline to pull Phil back, though he isn’t sure which of them needs the rescue, “I mean…I don’t remember what I said, not exactly. But if it sounded anything like, ‘I’m mad about you, I have been for the longest time, I think you’re awesome and I really want to ask you if I can take you out’ then I do know that I meant it. Meant every word.”

Phil stops, sinks back into his chair. He’s absolutely still for a long moment, just looking at Clint, and then, “Actually, it was more like, ‘I love you.’” He says it seriously, but he’s smiling. Thank all the gods, Phil’s smiling again. It’s better than medicine. And if he’s smiling, does that mean…? Has Clint really been given that chance as well?

“Oh.” Clint’s mouth draws up into a tentative grin of his own, “Well, that’s true too. I do love you Phil. A lot.” It feels good to say it, like letting go of an arrow held too long and he’s glad, no matter how this goes, “I’m just sorry I missed it for so long.”

Clint watches as Phil’s whole body relaxes and the universe is apparently kinder than Clint ever suspected, because he’s reaching for Clint’s hand again, “In that case, we have a lot to talk about.” 

His fingers are gentle, hot against Clint’s palm, despite the fact that Clint can definitely feel them trembling. “We do?”

“Yes.” Phil lifts Clint’s hand to his mouth and Clint shivers as his breath blows warm across it, “Because I think you might have missed a lot of other things too.”

“Yeah?” It catches in his throat in a very undignified way but Clint can’t bring himself to care, especially when Phil’s lips are pressing to his knuckles in a very soft, very sincere, very long kiss. It goes on and on until there are sparks skittering across Clint’s skin. 

Eventually Phil breaks away and all he says is, “Yeah.” but Clint can read in his eyes what he means. It’s written there plain and unmistakeable.

Wow.

Alright.

 _Awesome_.

Phil moves Clint’s hand again, unfolding his fingers and holding them until they’re lying flat against his face, so that Clint’s cupping his cheek. Then he braces their arms together and leans in with a quiet, happy sigh.

And there it is, at last. The full set, the touch Clint has been longing for. Not an ‘in-the field’, touch, not a ‘friends-and-comrades’ touch, not a ‘because-you-need-help’ touch. 

This touch is his, just for him, Clint feels the truth of it in his very bones. This is an ‘actually-I-love-you-too’ touch and, to fully complete Clint’s own personal miracle, there in Phil’s face there’s the promise of many, many more to come.

It’s right. Despite the fact that he’s lying in a medbay bed facing a future full of therapy and recovery, despite the fact that he has nothing more than a palm to Phil’s cheek, Clint knows that finally, it’s right. 

Hazily he’s aware that there must probably be another word, a better word to describe the wonder and amazement of this, but he’s too tired and sore and blissed-out to think of it. 

It doesn’t matter.

Phil’s here, with him.

That’ll do.

>>===>>

>>===>>

>>===>>

Months later and Clint’s walking happily down the street, grocery bag and bunch of flowers in his hand and a spring in his step. He’s weary, and sore again, but in the best way because today medical has finally and _at-fucking-last_ given him the all clear to return to proper training and ‘strenuous activities’. It’s been a long road, annoyingly long, but at last it’s almost over. He’s so ready to get back to it, his hands itch to get hold of his bow, his legs to run the parkour course that practically used to be his second home and his feet to just climb, to get up high and let him _breathe_. But all that’s for tomorrow to worry about, Today, most of all he’s just dying to call Phil and deliver the good news. Maybe he can even persuade him away from his desk a little early so they can head out for dinner to celebrate. With wine and kissing even.

Yep, Clint Barton is officially the King of Planning, because that sounds awesome.

The idea has him grinning even as he juggles the parcels to code the lock on Phil’s apartment.

Well, actually…

 

Not just Phil’s apartment, his apartment. Their apartment. He’d moved in when medical finally released him, at first just for the early days of his recuperation, just so Phil could keep an eye on him but there’d never seemed to be a good reason to move out again. Sure, some of his stuff is still gathering dust back in his old rooms, but Clint? He lives here with Phil. And to be frank, he’s never been happier about that fact than he is right now, because he seriously cannot wait to get through the damn security and in so he can call his boyfriend from somewhere where flapping ears won’t be able to hear the arguments he’s going to use. The King of Planning has some serious persuading to get started.

Finally the lock clicks and Clint’s able to swing the door open and get through the door, kicking it shut behind him and heading towards the kitchen to put the flowers in water. He’s halfway there when a soft,

“Hello.”

has him spinning and sucking in a startled breath, which he loses in a sudden whoosh when he sees the vision before him. 

The flowers and bag hit the floor at the same moment that Clint’s feet start to move, apparently without any conscious input from his brain which has pretty much shorted out at this point, and he’s in the living room in seconds without once taking his eyes off where Phil’s leaning against the back of the couch, eyes sparkling and the sexiest tiny smile on his face.

Hot _damn_.

In an instant the King of Planning loses his crown for sure, no argument. Phil has much better ideas.

Clint stops a couple of paces away, just to take in the view better, and… jesus. 

Phil’s leaning back against the couch, arms folded, wearing the black silk robe that Clint and Nat had bought him as a gag gift from that mission near China that time and, from the way the sleeves are folded back to show off his frankly wonderful forearms and the amount of chest revealed through the loose v of its wrap, not much else. Clint swallows, hard. Apparently he needs to work on his visualisation skills because as many times as he’d imagined what Phil might look like in that robe (yes, he’s imagined it. Enough times that he’s fairly sure that Natasha picked it out just to torture him) he’s never quite pictured anything as magnificent as this reality. 

Dropping Phil’s gaze, Clint lets his eyes roam slowly and very obviously over him, absorbing the picture from firm calves to stupidly handsome face and finally coming back to the smile, which has only gotten wider and more self-assured.

Phil looks _edible_. 

And that smile? The cheeky bastard definitely knows it.

Clint makes some attempt to gather his dignity, though it’s pretty much shot because he can feel that he’s flushed, probably thanks to the fact that his heart’s suddenly going a mile a minute. Fuck it. He gives up, and just grins, touching his tongue to his teeth lasciviously and letting Phil see the affect he’s having.

“Hello yourself, Mr Naked-in-a-robe. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

“Clearly.” The smile becomes more of a smirk as Phil pushes himself up and closes the gap between them, standing so close that Clint can feel the heat coming through the thin silk.

“If I’d known you’d be home,” he gasps as Phil’s hand slips onto his hip, fingertips just grazing up under his t-shirt, “then I wouldn’t have stopped for groceries”

Phil slides his hand further, stopping in the small of Clint’s back. “But if you’d known I’d be home, then I wouldn’t have been able to kiss that adorable surprised look off your face.”

And before Clint can protest, Phil’s pulling his head down and kissing him. Like, thoroughly kissing him. They’ve kissed before, of course they have, they’ve been together months and Clint’s been recuperating, not a monk, but this is a whole new ball game. Phil’s insistent, overwhelming, claiming Clint’s lips with fierceness that’s intoxicating. Clint can’t help the moan that escapes him and then he’s fisting his own hands in Phil’s robe and pulling him in tight while Phil plunders his mouth. The next few minutes are all tongues and teeth, nipping and nibbling and Clint’s breathless when they finally break apart. Licking his lips, he tastes raspberries, actual real ones not just memories, and the slight sting of alcohol.

“Phillip Coulson, have you been drinking?”

Phil delivers a smirk that sets Clint’s belly clenching hot and hard. “I may have indulged in a Knickerbocker. There’s one for you in the bedroom if you’d like it.”

“Ohhh, god…” It gives Clint a full-body shiver, first the fact that Phil remembered, and then the word ‘bedroom’ which suddenly has a whole host of delicious implications. Phil definitely feels it because he grins wickedly and dives into Clint’s neck, mouthing wet kisses up the column of his throat from collar to ear. None of which help with the shivering situation.

“I’ll, ah, take a wild guess that my, nngh, news isn’t actually news to you then? Ohhhh…” Clint manages to gasp, knees almost buckling.

Phil lifts his teeth from worrying Clint’s earlobe, “There is a small chance that I may have called in a few favours at medical, and that I may have found out that you were going to be cleared. And that I may then have made a few plans about how to celebrate that information.”

“My, Agent Coulson, isn….ahhh!” Clint has to break off because Phil’s tongue is running round the shell of his ear and his mouth just forgets how to speak for a second, “isn’t that a flagrant misuse of your authority?”

“Absolutely.” He’s already started freeing the buttons on Clint’s shirt, “But I’m finding it very hard to care about that right now, given that it helped me find out that I’m finally allowed to touch you.”

The shirt’s undone, Phil lets go of Clint just long enough that he can to strip it off and then his hands are back and sliding hot up Clint’s spine. Clint arches his shoulders back into the touch.

“Pretty sure you’ve been touching me for a while now,” he says, and while he talks he’s dropping his hands to the belt of Phil’s robe. Goddammit, what is that silky stuff made of? The knot is fucking impossible to his trembling, over-eager fingers, “pretty sure nobody else was giving me sponge baths or helping me pull my pants up over my ass.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Phil’s hands come to join Clint’s and they make short work of the knot. “Besides, you enjoyed the sponge baths.”

The instant the robe drops open Clint is inside, sliding his palms over skin and finding nothing but acres and acres of smooth, warm Phil. He moans and clutches his hands reflexively, pulling Phil in even tighter, “You enjoyed my ass.”

A chuckle rumbles deep in Phil’s chest and his eyes go even darker, “And I’ll be enjoying it even more if we can just make it to the bedroom.” he growls, pushing Clint lightly in the right direction.

“Whatever you say Boss.” There’s no force on the planet that could make Clint let go of Phil now so instead of turning he walks backward, pulling Phil after him in a sweet, stumbling waltz towards the bedroom that gets even more awkward and wonderful because Phil just doesn’t stop kissing him, chest, face, neck, wherever he can reach.

By the apartment door Clint’s toes kick against something that crinkles and Phil pulls away from where he’s paying some extremely welcome attention to Clint’s collarbone to glance down as they stumble past,

“Did you bring me flowers? They’re lovely.”

“I…oh, ngahhh, _for fuck’s sake_!” Clint loses his words as Phil’s mouth returns just a little lower, planting a sucking kiss on his nipple, “Jesus…” Taking a second to rest against the bedroom doorframe Clint puts two fingers under Phil’s chin he forces his head up to look at him. He’s never seen a man look so pleased with himself in his whole life and it makes Clint just want to _eat him alive_. He draws a steadying breath, “I did bring you flowers. But you brought me nakedness, so you win, flowers are completely irrelevant right now. _Come here…_ ” Running two hands down Phil’s back he grabs a firm hold of that magnificent ass and lifts, spinning them through the door and tossing Phil down on to the mattress.  
Phil makes noise of indignant surprise (another one to lock into the Phil noises database) but he laughs as he bounces and then leans back into the pillows, half draped in black silk, showing a whole lot of thigh and eyeing Clint hungrily.

So bloody gorgeous. How in hell’s name did Clint ever get this lucky?

“Bossy.” Phil cocks his head to one side and smirks, “Now what?”

It’s a challenge, an invitation to play some more, but suddenly Clint hasn’t got an ounce of banter left in him. All he has is red-hot want and need and _Phil_ and the truth of it is burning its way out of him, he’s going to combust,

“Now…” His pants are already undone and he pushes them off and comes to kneel on the bed beside Phil, arms held wide in invitation, supplication, “you said you wanted to touch me, so touch me.” his voice cracks, “God, please Phil, touch me.”

Instantly Phil’s surging up into his embrace. 

One ravishing kiss and a swift push later and Clint’s lying back in the sheets marvelling at the glorious sight of completely naked Phil above him, straddling his hips, robe lost somewhere in the sheets. He raises his hands to pull him down for another kiss but,

“Don’t,” Phil sounds almost pained, “let me. Oh, Clint, just...let me.”

Clint puts them down, keeps as still as he can after that, but it really is not easy. Phil’s hands are all over him, touching his whole body throat to hip, stroking with hot palms, outlining his muscles with featherlight fingertips, scratching down his ribs just hard enough to leave hot red lines that tingle just the right side of pain. Clint writhes under Phil’s weight, sheets twisted in his fists, skin on fucking fire, body sparkling out of his control. He has no idea what’s coming from moment to moment, it’s thrilling and it doesn’t matter, all he wants is more, more, and _more_.

More of this, more of Phil, more of everything.

As if he hears Clint’s silent plea Phil suddenly shifts back, dropping his head low and without warning taking the whole of Clint’s hard length into his mouth. There’s a garbled scream and it has to be Clint’s but who really knows because his whole brain has been taken over by _tight_ and _wet_ and _hot_. Instinctively his hips buck up, hard, hard enough that he’s suddenly glad that they waited for medical approval because, damn, he’s almost ripping himself in two chasing Phil’s throat. Phil, for his part, doesn’t seem to mind, he simply waits for the spasm to subside, for Clint to relax back and then sucks him down again, and again, and again, nose nuzzling into Clint’s belly, throat and tongue working around him. It’s incredible. It’s insane. 

“Jesus _christ_ , Phil,” Clint moans, “don’t you _have_ a gag reflex?”

Agonisingly slowly, Phil draws back up and Clint almost loses it entirely watching those lips stretched red against his length, sliding up and up until they lift off with an obscene pop. He’s laughing, the bastard is actually laughing,

“Gag reflex?” his tongue flicks out to tease Clint’s tip, “Not so’s you’d notice, no.”

It’s almost too much. 

“Goddamn…” Clint throws himself back into the pillows with one arm across his face, groaning and on the very edge of overwhelm, “You absolute…I mean… _fuck me_.”

Phil crawls back up Clint’s body until his lips are just tickling his ear,

“If that’s something you’d want,” he breathes, only the slightest hitch in his voice, “then, absolutely.”

Goosebumps. Instant, whole-body goosebumps.

 _If_ that’s something he’d want? Fucking _if_?

Hell.

Clint drags Phil round and kisses him, hard, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other on his ass, and rolls his hips, hoping that the way he’s grinding himself into Phil will serve for ‘ _yes_ ’ and ‘ _please_ ’ and ‘ _right the fuck now_ ’ all at once.

Apparently it does because Phil kisses him back, then flashes him that wicked grin again before rolling away to fiddle with something in the bedside drawer. When he rolls back with slick fingers Clint can’t help it, he straight-up, full-throat _moans_ , which would be mortifyingly embarrassing if this were anyone but Phil. But it is. So it isn’t.

Phil’s diligent with his prep, so much so that before long Clint forgets that moaning could even be embarrassing, forgets that it’s anything other than the only noise he knows how to make. Circling, stroking, Phil touches him inside and out with a precision and care that’s at once humbling and yet so deliciously frustrating that Clint’s left lying there squirming, legitimately fearing that he might lose his damn mind from the sheer pleasure of it. One finger, two, three, pushing and rubbing deep into him, sparking shocks into his belly, it’s too much and yet nowhere near enough. He’s writhing, pleading, “Please Phil, more, more, please, please,” but Phil is ruthless, holding him on the very edge while the world swings wild around him. Eventually, after the longest and best few minutes of his life, Clint can’t take it any more and he breaks, bucking wildly, shouting,

“Jesus Phil, fuck me, please, _now_ , just fuck me, please, _I’ve got clearance!_ ”

The noise Phil makes is half laugh, half groan, and he clearly doesn’t need to be begged twice. He’s over Clint in an instant, parting his legs and pushing home in a one slick and easy glide. Clint gasps, but really the burn and stretch are minimal, thanks to the prep-that-took-eternity, it’s more the sheer feel of Phil moving into him, the fullness, the fit, the absolute rightness of it. And the look on Phil’s face.

Wow.

There’s a long moment where there’s nothing but their ragged breathing, and Clint just stares at Phil trembling above him. Looks at Phil, looking at him. He looks… reverent. Like he’s been given the keys to his own personal paradise. Clint’s heart wants to burst at the vulnerability, the honesty in it. He’d known, of course he had, but now he really knows, and it’s overwhelming.

“Phil,” he manages to dredge up a croak, “move.”

Phil blinks, smiles, obliges. Slowly at first but then with more speed, more power as they begin to lose themselves in the rhythm of it. It’s give and take, push and pull, as smooth as if they’d been doing this together forever. Clint rocks his hips up into Phil’s thrusts, knows he won’t last long. Can’t. It’s been too long, too long a wait and Phil is so hot, so hard so _fucking good_ that there’s absolutely no resisting the swell of bliss already rising hard and bright in his gut, the tide threatening to carry him off. Phil’s hot over him, hard in him and hitting him perfectly, exactly, right every time and as much as he doesn’t want this to end, ever, he’s going, going, going already.

“Phil,” he chokes out, hands gripping Phil’s arms hard enough to leave sharp red marks, “shit, Phil, I’m gonna, gonna, nngh, _fuck_! Oh god, _Phil_ , you’re gonna make me…”

Clint loses it. His vision actually blacks out for a second as he comes in a peak of insane pleasure, almost bowing himself in half, turning inside out, spilling himself between their bodies. Phil rocks his hips, working him through it, his soft chant of “yes, Clint, _yes_ , oh god, yes…” forming the background to Clint’s cries.

Eventually, finally it subsides enough for Clint to drag in a shuddering breath, loosen his grip on Phil a little. Phil’s looking down at him with a kind of pleased awe and then he’s stilling his hips, pulling back slightly.

Clint wraps his legs round Phil, locking his ankles at the base of his spine, because yeah, no, that’s not happening. “No.” he says it firmly as he can manage after that mind-blowing orgasm, “Don’t you dare. No. You’re mine.”

Phil frowns, “But, you…”

“Mine.” The repeat comes out as a growl, “Do you hear? Mine. And I want to feel you come.”

“ _Clint_ …” Phil sounds raw, feral, absolutely shattered, his face twists and then he’s moving again, shifting his hips, pushing into Clint with so much sudden, aggressive force that it’s all Clint can do to hang on for the ride. It’s awesome, especially when Phil finds that exactly magical angle again and sends fresh waves of sparks racing across Clint’s already oversensitive skin. He gasps. Something in Phil’s face has gone animal and it might be the greatest thing Clint’s ever seen, Phil Coulson falling apart, falling apart because of him, falling apart _for_ him. He lifts himself to meet Phil, pulls him down until their foreheads touch, begging again,

“Come on sweetheart, that’s it, you’re so good, come on, come on Phil, love, come, _come for me…_ ”

As if waiting for that final permission, Phil howls, buries his face in Clint’s throat and comes. Clint holds him close, revelling in every pulse deep inside him, every jerk and shake of Phil’s hips, every helpless gasp of his breath. It’s all so good he can barely process.

When it’s finally over, Phil pulls out and flops back onto the mattress, his clinging hands turning Clint who goes happily, scrubbing them both quickly with a corner of the sheet and tucking himself under Phil’s arm and into his side. Neither of them speaks, lost for words, and not just both because their chests are still heaving. Clint thinks they might both be a little stunned.

He wriggles himself in closer, rests his head on Phil’s chest, waits for his breathing to subside. Yep, he is definitely stunned. How is it possible that when not even a year ago he was lying on a gurney, bleeding out and thinking he’d lost any and every minuscule chance he’d ever had to make this dream into a reality, that now they’re here? It’s a miracle or something, one he’d tried to resign himself to living without. Thought he could. And he’d been wrong. Wrong as hell to think that he ever could have lived without this, or died without it even, that just having Phil as a friend and boss would do. That it would be enough. Stupid.

But that’s alright. That’s just because he could never have imagined fully how having Phil like this would actually be. It is enough. It’s more than enough. His mouth is full of the unique taste of Phil’s kisses, ears the comforting sound of his heart. The familiar scent of ginger is mixed with Phil’s (and his) sweat, making him home, safe. He aches from the sight of the gorgeousness that is golden, glowing, satisfied Phil Coulson, and as for touch, his hands have gloried in each and every one of Phil’s lines and curves and he is absolutely full of Phil’s touch in return. Inside and out, Clint feels held, and complete. So yes, it’s enough and about sixteen bags more besides. 

But there ought to be a bigger, better word for this, how this, being with Phil, is. ‘Enough’ isn’t enough. ‘Right’ gets a bit closer and is true but still too…blah. ‘Awesome’? He calls everything from socks to pizza to dogs awesome, and Phil’s as good as all those, but, no. What he wants is a special word, something different and he’s not entirely sure why he’s obsessing about it now, except that it feels important. What can there possibly be? Clint’s on the verge of getting up to hunt down a thesaurus when Phil takes a deep breath and puts the brakes on his train of thought.

“That,” Phil says in the voice of a man surprised but well satisfied, “was fucking _sensational_.” 

The panic drains out of him. Clint can’t help it, he laughs, because yes, that’s exactly what he’s been looking for. Trust Phil. Shaking his head and still chuckling, he climbs up to straddle Phil and look into his puzzled face. Gently, he kisses the frown until it goes away and grins down at his lover,

“When exactly did you become a mind reader?”

Phil’s obviously not sure what the joke is, but he’s happy to play along. “Ah. Well. That would be one of my secret, badass, ninja skills. If I told you how I do it, I’d have to kill you.”

“Really?” Clint arches an eyebrow.

“Oh, definitely.”

“Alright then,” Clint lowers himself onto Phil so that their chests are touching, resting on his elbows either side of Phil’s head, “tell me what I’m thinking right now.” Phil stares at him for a long, fond moment, saying nothing until Clint prompts him, “Phil?”

Phil’s unfocused smile is nothing short of satisfyingly sappy. “I love you.”

“Well, I guess that’s true,” Clint laughs again, getting giddy with the headiness of happiness “I was thinking that.”

“No,” Phil wriggles in protest, getting a hand free and pointing, “I meant, I love you. As in, me, you. I love you Clint. Always.”

“I know. I’m teasing.” Clint catches the hand and kisses its palm, then slides down to Phil’s side back to where he was before, folding both their hands together over Phil’s heart. “But I love you too Phil. Forever.”

Phil squeezes him in agreement, drops a kiss onto his head, Clint pulls the clean edge of the covers up over them and they drift into comfortable, satiated silence together. 

It’s perfect, Clint thinks, just perfect. Finally. Perfect moment, perfect man, perfect word.

 _Totally_ sensational.


End file.
